Evening
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: In which John and Sherlock have an evening cuddle and talk openly about their relationship. Pointless fluff.     Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John  platonic romance, established relationship, nonsexual soul mates


A/N: Random and short and pointless schmoop along the lines of "Morning."

**Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John** (established relationship, platonic romance, nonsexual soul mates)

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><p>Evening<p>

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><p>It's raining. Sherlock and John have settled on the sofa, their dinner dishes in the sink, and they leave the telly switched off. The flat is quiet, and the sitting room illuminated by two of the lamps. John's on his back and Sherlock lies on top of him and against his left side, leg flung over both of his. Sherlock asked for a cuddle, his urge overpowering any interest in work and experiments he could otherwise be spending his time on. John happily agreed as he always does, knowing that Sherlock sometimes feels the impulse quite potently. To deny him when he asks would be a painful rejection.<p>

He pushes his hand beneath Sherlock's, weaving their fingers, palm to palm. Sherlock is wearing his ring, and so is John, on his other hand that cups over Sherlock's shoulder. John looks at their hands clasped together, and Sherlock does too, both of them reflecting on what it means. Sherlock crooks his neck back to look up into John's face, wanting to read his emotions, and John looks at him with amusement and affection.

"You'll be here with me forever?" says Sherlock.

John smiles softly with patience. "Always, Sherlock. Always."

He leans his head down and presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, and Sherlock closes his eyes.

"You worry," says John, almost whispering, lips still near the other man's hair. "Even now. But you can be sure of me. I promise."

Sherlock tilts his head forward and stares at their hands. "You're my heart," he says, hoping that John knows everything he means by it.

"You have your own, Sherlock," says John, gently. "All I did was help you find it again."

"There isn't any difference."

They lie still and quiet for a while, listening to the rain pitter pattering on the windows. John begins to tell Sherlock why remaining with him will always offer the best possible life: that their work together infuses John with energy and liveliness, makes him feel young again and useful, excites him as nothing and no one ever did except for war. And war demanded too high a price. Yet it isn't just the world Sherlock inhabits that draws him; John has _become_ the man who lives with Sherlock Holmes, the man who loves him, married him. He couldn't possibly be John Watson without Sherlock, not anymore. He is so far removed from ordinary, he can no longer see what ever appealed to him about in the first place. Perhaps it never did.

"I'm happy," John says. "I can't think of anything more to want. I'm a happy man as few men are these days. I couldn't bear to be apart from you."

John slides his hand underneath Sherlock's shirt, resting it against the warm bare skin of the other man's back. Sherlock shudders a little and purrs, squeezing John tight, nuzzling his face into John's jumper. They lie together like that in silence, basking in each other's warmth and weight and smell. They each have their eyes closed without knowing it of the other, breathing slow and steady, relaxed and relieved. They'll fall asleep if they remain silent.

"Did it scare you?" says Sherlock, listening to John's heart beating below his ear.

"What?"

"Recognizing what you felt for me."

"No," John says readily, almost smiling. "Just confused me a bit. There's more than one kind of love, Sherlock. I always cared about you, right from the start. I'd never loved anyone this way before, but it wasn't too much of a departure from being your friend."

"You're still my friend."

John smiles at that, stroking Sherlock's curls. "Maybe if my feelings for you were sexual, it would've scared me a bit, since I'm not gay. I don't know. I do know that you're the only person I've ever felt this way about, male or female, not just the only bloke. It's different. Maybe I should've been scared."

"Mmm."

They're quiet for a while, as John moves his thumb over the dip in Sherlock's lower back, their skin warm there.

"Did it scare you?" John says, lowering his voice. "Falling in love with me."

Sherlock is silent for a beat. "A little," he says. "I couldn't make sense of it. I'd never felt like that before."

John looks down at the top of Sherlock's head in slight surprise. "You were never in love before?"

"No."

"I'm the only one," says John, with mild awe. "Really, in your whole life."

"Yes," says Sherlock. "I didn't know if what I felt was romantic, if I was qualitatively 'in love,' since I had no means with which to make a comparison. I don't know what other people mean when they say it of themselves. I only know that what I feel for you must be love. It doesn't matter what kind. You are everything to me. It is the only thing relevant."

John tightens his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, pressing them closer, feeling his chest swell with emotion. His other moves up Sherlock's back, beneath his shirt, pressing between and right below Sherlock's shoulder blades.

"You really are brilliant," he says to the detective. "And I don't just mean the way you think."

Sherlock smiles wide and indulgently against John's chest. "Do you know how I really knew?"

"That you loved me?"

"Mm."

"Tell me how."

"Passion. The only thing I ever had any passion for was the work. You came along and suddenly, it was the same feeling."

"What do you mean?" John says softly.

"Intensity of feeling. You must be protected, you must be near me, you must—stay. Not simply a preference, but a need. And you made me…. Happy. Like the work."

John chuckles, arms wrapped tightly around him. "You make me happy too," he says. "When you aren't driving me mad."

Sherlock, now far more relaxed, twitches his lips into a smile. "You're never bored."

Which, coming from Sherlock, is the grandest gesture of love he could ever perform.

"That's true," says John. He runs his hand down the length of Sherlock's spine, and when he runs it back up, Sherlock's body shudders again with pleasure. He clutches at John's jumper with his hand, closing his eyes, and feeling the warmth fill his whole being.

"John."

"Sherlock."

They don't say anymore because there aren't any words. They stay where they are and drift off to sleep, the rain persisting outside.


End file.
